


Steady, sure hands

by jomipay



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), Black Comedy, Dark-ish, Demisexual Crowley, Discussions of Morality, Experienced Aziraphale, Good AUmens, Hitmen AU, Inexperienced Crowley, M/M, Porn With Plot, Slow Burn-ish, black comedy with feels, black dramedy? is that a thing?, can suturing be erotic? I submit yes, casual depictions of violence, erotic suturing, fucking while pining, i don't even know what genre this is, nothing too graphic, prob will get kinda bdsm-y cause like when do i not??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:13:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24501391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jomipay/pseuds/jomipay
Summary: Crowley hadn’t even considered him a threat. Had thought nothing of the incidental brush of contact when Aziraphale had most assuredly pick-pocketed him. Crowley would come to like that about Aziraphale. The bastard streak. The cleverness. The ability to not be seen when it didn’t suit him. The careful consideration he now knew Aziraphale devoted to all tasks, the precision that made him so good with a gun in his hands, the observational skills that told him exactly where a weakness was, the deft hands to expose it.A hitmen AU for the Good AUmens event. Hi, I'm writing this crazy thing. Listen, I'm on this wild ride same as you.CW: for mentions of guns and general casual discussion of violence and blood, but nothing too graphic
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 59
Kudos: 111
Collections: Good AUmens AU Fest





	1. In my sights

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi friends, this is definitely something wildly different for me. I hope you enjoy. I'm very nervous about posting this, validate me if you're so inclined. Also let me know if you run across something you'd like a content warning for. *nervous shrieking*

Aziraphale shivered against the breeze blowing across his face from the open window. He was dressed appropriately for the chilly evening, but he had pulled his mask down away from his cheeks and eyes to better see through his scope. Separating Aziraphale from his target’s posh penthouse flat was a large construction site, where the skeleton of a high-rise building was taking shape with bare steel beams rising skyward, forming the ribcage for the beating heart of some future corporate machine. He had a clear view of the target’s flat through the bare cage of the beams. He adjusted his scope, magnifying his view. A quick sweep of the dark flat told him his target still wasn’t home. He shuffled his legs around in an attempt to stretch his stiff muscles. He’d been laying in his current position, prone on top of some executive’s unforgivingly hard desk on the fortieth floor of an office building, for the better part of an hour. Aziraphale let out a resigned sigh, watching his breath puff and wisp away into the night air. Still no sign of the bastard. He’d certainly had more comfortable assignments and while he loved Ophelia, his bolt-action, .50 BMG caliber sniper rifle, dearly—she was hefty. He’d had to lug her up more sets of stairs than he personally cared to remember. And the desk really was rather uncomfortable.

A small flash of light from the bottom corner of his vision caught Aziraphale’s attention. He dialed the magnification on his scope back, broadening his view, to investigate the source. It looked to be coming from somewhere in the unfinished building in front of him. The flashes were cycling through a pattern in longer and short bursts that were clearly Morse code. Aziraphale kept searching for the source as he deciphered the message. _LONG-LONG-SHORT, SHORT, SHORT-LONG-SHORT-SHORT_ and on it went until the cycle repeated and Aziraphale deciphered the message as “ANGEL.” His heart fluttered with excitement as he finally discovered the source of the light. A figure with a high-power flashlight, lounging on one of the steel beams, one foot dangling over the edge of it with seemingly no care for the fact that he was hundreds of feet off the ground. Aziraphale didn’t even want to think about how he’d even gotten up there. He knew who it was, of course he knew, but it had been so long since he’d last seen him. So long since he’d seen the crooked smile, the red waves of his hair, that he had to be sure. He trained Ophelia’s scope on the figure and magnified until he could see that it was a man holding up a pair of binoculars and smirking at him. His heart raced. It was one of his favorite smirks, from one of his favorite people.

_Crowley._


	2. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’ve got my key.” Crowley narrowed his eyes.  
> Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat and said primly, “You’ve got my hit.” He nodded his cotton head in the direction of the man Crowley had tied up and gagged.

The first time Crowley had seen Aziraphale, he hadn’t thought much of him. Crowley was holed up doing surveillance on a target in a dusty, dingy pub somewhere on the outskirts of the Arabian desert. The village was a popular launching point for archeological types and the like. The pub Crowley was stuck in was a favorite haunt. Though Crowley couldn’t understand why; he winced as he drank his beer, the stuff was barely drinkable. The lighting was dim, and Aziraphale hadn’t stuck out amongst the modest clustering of people. Crowley personally didn’t see the appeal. Spend weeks at a time out in the unforgiving desert, digging through the hot sand, dealing with all manner of creepies and crawlies, cut off from his mobile? Crowley suppressed as shudder thinking about it. His hit was some black-market art dealer that met up with archeologists on their way back in to relieve them of some of their finds. Some of them were willing participants and traded their finds for large sums of money. Others were less willing. They were offered a sum of money for their goods and if they refused, they were more _forcibly_ parted with their discoveries. He’d killed dozens of people. Real charming bloke.

Crowley finally reached the end of his awful drink and knocked it back with a grimace. His target was still voraciously socializing and didn’t look to be slowing down any time soon. He shoved himself up from his table and went to the bar to grab another drink. That’s when first contact had been made. The first moment Aziraphale’s body had brushed against his. Crowley would later reflect with astonishment that the first touch hadn’t felt like anything special, not yet. If anything, it had been irritating. Here was this foppish man—bowtie, waistcoat, the whole shebang—assaulting him with his body heat and invading his personal space. There was plenty of space at the bar and it was hot and humid and the ancient box fan droning in the corner was only doing so much to mitigate that. Another archeologist or historian or something. The place was bloody teeming with them. Couldn’t throw a rock without hitting one, which Crowley might actually enjoy. Crowley sighed and shuffled away from him with a heavy roll of his eyes.

Aziraphale had seen it and blustered, “Oh, oh my dear I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your ‘bubble’.” He had curled his thick fingers in air quotations around the word ‘bubble’ and tilted his head, bouncing his fluffy white curls. His headful of irritating, fluffy curls. Crowley scowled.

“Don’t worry about it.” He waved him off.

He ordered himself a tonic water and stalked back to his table in the corner.

The target was now three pints down. He’d have to get up to relieve himself sometime soon, which Crowley knew from careful observation, that he’d go to do so alone. Crowley appraised the room. The foppish man from the bar that Crowley would later come to know _very well_ , was playing darts with a couple dusty archaeologists with leathery skin, won from too much time spent in the sun. It was another ten minutes before the target put his cigar out on the table and got up. Crowley watched him exit and waited approximately thirty seconds before he got up to follow.

Crowley quite literally caught the man with his pants down. He made short work of gagging him and binding his wrists together with duct tape. Crowley had a room above the pub, paid for with cash and under a fake name. The entrance was up an outdoor set of stairs, around the back of the pub. He marched the target, gun muzzle firmly pressed to the small of his back, up the stairs and through the entrance into a little hallway, lined with rickety wooden doors to dusty little rooms. He vaguely wondered if there was anything in this forsaken place that wasn’t covered in a fine layer of dust. The hallway was deserted, which he’d been expecting. The only other person with a room had left an hour ago.

Crowley stopped in front of his door and dug around in his pocket for the key. Panic rose in his throat as he realized it was not in his pocket. He frantically searched his other pocket, even though he was quite sure of precisely where he had placed it. Upon not finding it in either pocket he growled in exasperation.

There was a polite clearing of a throat from the end of the hall, just behind the door from the stairs. Crowley whipped his head around. He’d been so absorbed in the panic induced by his missing key he hadn’t even heard the footsteps coming up the wooden stairs, the slow, pained creak of the door opening. The wheels turned in Crowley’s head, the gears clicked.

“Looking for this?” Aziraphale dangled the key in front of him with a smug tip of his head and upturn of pretty pink lips.

Crowley hadn’t even considered him a threat. Had thought nothing of the incidental brush of contact when Aziraphale had most assuredly pick-pocketed him. Crowley would come to like that about Aziraphale. The bastard streak. The cleverness. The ability to not be seen when it didn’t suit him. The careful consideration he now knew Aziraphale devoted to all tasks, the precision that made him so good with a gun in his hands, the observational skills that told him exactly where a weakness was, the deft hands to expose it.

Crowley had pulled himself together, barely.

Years later, Crowley would still remember how that first conversation went. He remembered because Aziraphale had been such a smug bastard about the whole thing. A smug, charming bastard, which had made a considerable impression upon Crowley because he was not easily charmed.

“You’ve got my key.” Crowley narrowed his eyes.

Aziraphale straightened his waistcoat and said primly, “You’ve got my hit.” He nodded his cotton head in the direction of the man Crowley had tied up and gagged.

Crowley gave a deep sigh. “Well, best sort this out behind closed doors, then.”

He moved the target out of the way and Aziraphale carefully walked forward, revealing his own gun outfitted with a sleek, long silencer. Once the door was unlocked, Crowley corralled the target into a chair, duct taping his feet to each leg before turning his attention to Aziraphale.

“Right, so you’re after our friend here?”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, indeed I am.”

“Well, I don’t see why we can’t work something out.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale give the room a once over, eyes halting on the plastic tarp and the large bucket by they chair.

Aziraphale hesitated.

“I’ve only got to bring my lot back a finger.” Crowley explained, shrugging.

At the mention of the finger the target began emitting a series of panicked, muffled shrieks around his gag.

“Hush, you won’t feel a thing, you’ll be dead well before I cut off a finger.” Crowley dismissed him with a sniff and a brush of his nose and the muffled shrieks continued at a considerably higher volume.

“I suppose we might be able to negotiate something.” Aziraphale said. He seemed to be dithering, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He stood up to his full height, not much shorter than Crowley, when he’d made up his mind. He walked towards Crowley, making a show of clicking his gun’s safety on, and extended his hand.

Crowley clicked his safety on, showing the other man, before reaching to take it and shake it firmly.

“Aziraphale.”

The strength of Aziraphale’s grip hadn’t surprised Crowley, but the softness of his hand had. The skin looked well cared for, only a hint of callouses, the nails were clipped short and obviously cared for with some frequency. It made him a bit self-conscious about his own raggedy nails with their chipped black polish.

“Crowley. Your name’s not really Aziraphale, is it?”

Aziraphale indulged him in a smile that showed off a mouth full of perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth framed by two perfectly pink, plush lips.

“It could be.” Aziraphale demurred. “Perhaps I just had particularly religious parents.”

Crowley snorted.

“You didn’t. You work for Eden.”

He recognized the naming scheme, he used to have a moniker that fit the same scheme, when he’d worked for Eden, a particular section of MI6 that, strictly speaking, didn’t actually exist.

“So, you’re MI6, then?”

Aziraphale’s smile faltered. “The MI6 doesn’t have assassins.”

“Oh no, you’re right. In that division you’re more of a glorified hitman.” Crowley paused. “Good to know they’re still naming all their operatives after angels. ‘Aziraphale’ does seem a bit of a stretch though, bit suspicious, if you ask me.”

“Good thing I’m not asking.” Aziraphale snipped and then frowned and wiggled his fingers as if trying to wave some unpleasant grime off them. “I don’t like the term ‘hitman’.”

Crowley arched an eyebrow.

“It’s just so crude.” Aziraphale said by way of explanation. Ridiculous. Ridiculous man with his ridiculous hair and ridiculous bowtie.

“Whatever you say, _angel_.” Crowley sneered.

“Oh, don’t make fun, you boar.” Aziraphale pouted, actually pouted, sticking his plump bottom lip out and drawing a chuckle from Crowley.

The target grumbled, looking back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale with something akin to irritation.

“Oi, quiet you.” Crowley turned his gun to the bound man, whose eyes widened comically.

Crowley took a moment to consider the situation and decided on a course of action.

“Right, so as for what to do about him.” He casually waved his gun in the direction of their victim, eliciting another panicked series of grunts and grumbles.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Oh, do be quiet. It’s not every day you’ve got two hits put out on you. You should be honored; someone must really feel quite strongly about putting you in your grave.”

“He’s even government sponsored!” Crowley added. “Takes clout, that. You’ve pissed the government off so badly they’ve put a hit out on you. Probably all those artifacts you’ve deprived them of.”

“How do you want to do this, then?” Aziraphale asked, eyeing the large bucket at the target’s feet.

“Well, you’ll just need some kind of DNA sample for your lot, right?” He waited for Aziraphale’s nod of confirmation before continuing, “You can just take what you like and off you pop, easy as that, no one needs to know we were both here.”

“I suppose there’s no harm in that.” Aziraphale’s tone was full of suspicion. “How were you planning on doing it?”

“Well, I was just going to turn our unfortunate friend on his side here, give his carotid a little nip and let this bucket collect all the messy bits.”

The bound man’s grunting took on a new edge of desperation.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “Excuse me, but you’re being very rude, we are in the middle of a conversation.”

The man grunted back frantically, sweat was dripping down his forehead.

“Oi, don’t be so upset, this is how you’ve taken care of several archeologists. Bled them dry and stuffed them in their own digs.”

Crowley walked over to a table where a pair of clean gloves were waiting. He eyed Aziraphale. “Are you going to shoot me if I put this down.” He held his gun suspended over the table.

“Oh, heavens no, dear.”

Crowley scoffed at being called ‘dear’ and set his gun down, pulling on his gloves and grabbing the nondescript, but rather sharp blade that would be the instrument of his target’s demise. He came to stand beside Aziraphale.

“How were you going to do it?”

“Oh, I was going to follow them back to camp and shoot him from a distance.”

The target’s expression was incredulous at this point.

“Rifle man, then?”

“Oh, yes, that’s my preferred method.” Aziraphale answered, as if they were discussing the weather.

Crowley grimaced, “Prefer knives myself. Never really liked guns.” He scrunched his nose. “And I’m a terrible shot.”

The target had worked himself into a complete frenzy. There were great spots of sweat darkening his shirt and his face was ruddy and smeared with sweat.

Aziraphale nodded sympathetically. “Certainly not for everyone. As luck would have it, I’m simply terrible with blades. Got cut to ribbons my first knife fight.” He shook his head sadly. “Oh! I’ve even got a scar.” Aziraphale held up his arm and rolled back one of his sleeves, revealing a faded, straight pink mark marring otherwise smooth skin.

The target made a rather pathetic noise that caught their attention.

“Yes, we’ll be with you in a moment.” Aziraphale responded, ignoring the flurry of noises that followed.

Crowley held up one of his hands. “Mine are covered in little nicks.”

Aziraphale leaned in to closer inspect the lattice work of delicate scars, varying from completely faded white to fresher pink, that adorned his hands. Came with the territory when you liked knife fighting.

“Well I suppose we’d best get a wiggle on.” Aziraphale said when he’d finished his inspection of Crowley’s hand.

“’Get a wiggle on’?” Crowley asked incredulously.

“What?”

“Nothing, nothing. Right, then.” Crowley gripped the scalpel and approached the chair. He kicked it, tipping it harshly on its side.

*

Running into Aziraphale became a normal part of Crowley’s routine over the next year. Crowley thought him rather strange, not someone he would expect was deadly or dangerous, but then again, he supposed that was rather the point. He decided he liked Aziraphale and was therefore never disappointed to run into him. He was good company. Sometimes they had the same target, in which case it was helpful to have an extra set of hands. Other times their marks differed but were usually in close proximity to each other, ran in the same circles. They’d fallen into a routine, with a careful arrangement. The arrangement came with rules. Aziraphale worked for Crowley’s former employer and as such it was best if they didn’t know the two of them had something of a working relationship. Crowley hadn’t left on the best of terms, and Aziraphale didn’t think they’d like to know they were working together. Crowley didn’t either. They were social, friendly even. Eventually they’d evolved to having clandestine meetings ahead of assignments, finding it easier to plan bigger hits together. Frequently they’d have a drink and a nibble along the way. It was all a part of the process. And if as time went on, the process became longer, and the conversations more and more unrelated to work, Crowley pointedly ignored it.

It had been three years before it finally happened. It had happened so gradually, Crowley hadn’t noticed it. Like putting your hand in a pot of water and turning up the temperature so slowly you can’t pull it out before it burns. And Crowley had burned himself, deeply. Left himself with a chunk of burnt flesh that had grown back shiny pink and tight. It had started with the crinkles around Aziraphale’s eyes when he smiled, the lines around his face that were so distracting he missed pieces of conversation staring at them. Then it had been his eyes. The same blue as the sky when he was outside in the sunshine, when his gaze fell upon something he liked. The dark blue of the deep ocean when he admitted to Crowley that he wasn’t sure he was good person, when he talked around the regrets in his heart, the things he couldn’t give a name. Grey, when he drank too much, when he leaned conspiratorially close to Crowley, when he placed a hand on his arm and whispered a joke in his ear. Grey, when that hand on his arm had sent heat soaking through the fabric of his shirt and into his flesh and sinew, when the hot rush of breath against his ear had sent a shiver down his spine. Grey, when Crowley’s world was tipped harshly on its side. Grey, when Crowley realized he _wanted_.

Crowley was attracted to Aziraphale. Attraction was fine, great, normal part of life for most people. Crowley had always found Aziraphale to be aesthetically pleasing. Crowley was sure lots of people probably found Aziraphale attractive. The problem was, Crowley was _attracted_ to Aziraphale, and attraction for Crowley came with a very important prerequisite—feelings. Feelings had never done anything good for Crowley. They’d made him a bad assassin. He never could just do what he was told, he always had to _feel_ some type of way about it. They’d made him draw a line in the sand that had sent him hurtling off a cliff, gotten him blacklisted and kicked out of Eden. He’d always felt too much and too deeply. None of his friends seemed to suffer the same fate, though they all had plenty of reason to. He couldn’t even look at Beez without wanting to cry half the time. There was a reason he didn’t like guns, a reason he could handle blood but not gunshot wounds. Because he’d loved Dagon, she’d been a good friend, but not as much as Beez had; and while Beez had their shaky moments, they were still fine, they’d gritted their teeth and gotten through it. Meanwhile Crowley’s hands trembled so badly whenever he had to shoot someone that his range had become severely limited.

Having feelings for Aziraphale was less than ideal. Crowley’s bruised and battered heart didn’t need another stone to beat itself with. Then there was the issue of the attraction. Crowley wasn’t generally interested in sex. He could be seductive if a situation called for it, and he’d had sex before, but he was inexperienced, and he didn’t enjoy it unless he felt some type of _way_ about the person. In his line of work, feeling that type of way about someone was emotional torture, Beez being a perfect and tragic example. When his attraction for Aziraphale began to build, his first reaction was irritation. Irritation and horror. Aside from that, it was bloody distracting. He’d met Aziraphale at a pub once and he hadn’t been wearing his bowtie and Crowley hadn’t been able to stop staring at the exposed hollow of his throat, wondering what it might be like to feel the warm skin there under his lips. He couldn’t watch Aziraphale role up his sleeves without his heart trying to jump out of his chest.

After the irritation wore off and Crowley had resigned himself to constantly staring at whatever part of Aziraphale’s body had transfixed him that month, he’d noticed the flirting. Had Aziraphale always been so touchy? Was he always so coquettish? Crowley was sure he hadn’t been. He wondered if he was projecting, if he was doing something to make his attraction noticeable. He did feel his face heat up every time Aziraphale leaned in too close or put a hand on his arm or, memorably, the small of his back. Crowley’s libido had a field day with the excess of attention being directed his way. He typically masturbated infrequently, when he felt the urge, but now the urge was ever present. He had an itch he was having a hard time reaching himself, a thirst that couldn’t be quenched. The night Aziraphale had placed his hand firmly on the small of his back, he’d ripped his trousers off as soon as the door to his flat closed. He’d taken himself in hand and stroked until pearly white liquid spilled over his hand, and when that wasn’t enough, he’d explored his entrance, enjoying the stretch and burn of two dry fingers as he palmed his oversensitive cock.

It was more difficult to be around Aziraphale then. Harder to ignore the swell of his heart. Work was bringing them together more frequently than ever. Something was happening, something big. Crowley wasn’t only a hitman anymore; he did a fair bit of surveillance, too. And in his surveilling one thing was becoming disturbingly clear. The assignments Aziraphale was being sent on were becoming more and more dangerous. Eden didn’t really believe in support for Aziraphale’s role. He was assigned a hit, he wasn’t to discuss it with any of the field operatives, he was just to carry it out and report back when it was finished. This lead to a significant moment in Crowley’s life.

It was precisely the reason Crowley had ended up knife fighting two rather large, very angry enforcer types in an abandoned warehouse with Aziraphale tied to a chair in the corner. Eden had sent him in over his head. Crowley’d had to pry his assignment out of him beforehand. Eden was currently eyeing the same crime syndicate Crowley’s organization was. They were really a rather nasty syndicate that had their hands in a bit of everything: human trafficking, fraud, theft, the works really. Crowley was just trying to get the lay of the land trying to figure out how they functioned, who the best people to take out might be. Eden had just given Aziraphale a name and sent him straight in. It was perhaps unexpected, though dismaying, when Crowley observed Aziraphale being dragged away into a car.

Crowley watched and waited. It was only the two men. They’d tied Aziraphale up and then put their guns down in favor of intimidating looking knives. They were looking for information then. A wave of irritation rolled through Crowley. It wasn’t like Aziraphale would be able to tell them anything; Eden wouldn’t have given him any useful information. Crowley crept quietly into the warehouse, stalking silently towards where the men had their backs turned. Aziraphale met his eyes, he looked calm, collected, and not at all frightened.

When Crowley had made it to within a few feet of the two men, he cleared his throat.

The two men whirled around.

“Who the bloody hell are you?”

Crowley ignored them.

“Looks like you’ve got yourself in a bit of a sticky spot, eh angel?”

Aziraphale had the gall to look annoyed. “Yes, rather. If you wouldn’t mind?” Aziraphale tipped his head daintily toward the henchmen.

“And what do you think you’re gonna do, mate?”

The men closed ranks and tightened their grips on their knives, drawing the skin so tight that it was white over the knuckles.

Crowley put his hands up in a placating pose. “I’m just here to help a friend, gentlemen, no need for anything too elaborate.”

“Gentleman?” Aziraphale balked. “They’re brutes, Crowley. They dragged me in here like gorillas. Really, look at the state of my jumper!” He pouted.

“If you don’t shut up about your bloody shirt, I’ll stick you like a pig.”

“Mmm. Manners could certainly use a little work, couldn’t they?” Crowley mused.

Aziraphale nodded solemnly.

The larger of the two crouched and took a few steps forward waving his knife menacingly. “I’ll show you manners.” He spat.

It didn’t look to Crowley like they were the sharpest knives in the drawer, and while the knives they were brandishing _were_ sharp, and certainly looked scary, they were rubbish for fighting.

Crowley didn’t wait to lunge at the closest man and slash the meaty hand holding his knife. The man yowled and his knife clattered to the floor. Crowley shuffled back, narrowly missing a wild swipe from the still armed man. Crowley tried to line them up, to limit their angles of attack, but they weren’t cooperating. Crowley lunged for one of them again and the other rammed into him with the force of a prized fighting bull, head down and everything, the only thing he was missing was the horns. Crowley had a moment of panic as he scrambled on the floor. He was hoisted to his feet and just had time to block a stab with his arm. The blade ripped through his shirt sleeve and cut into his skin like a hot poker, sending blooding down his hand and to the floor in little droplets. Crowley regained composure just in time to get rammed into the nearest wall. He groaned as his head made contact with the hard concrete. Crowley had the distinct impression that his head didn’t hurt nearly as much as it should have. He pushed against the behemoth with his legs and created just enough space to stab him squarely in the abdomen. The man dropped him and doubled over. Crowley took his opportunity and kicked him squarely in the face, with enough force that the man slumped to the floor. Crowley returned his attention to the other man, who was still frustratingly armed. He traded slashes, getting a few shallow scratches on his fingers along the way, but soon Crowley had an opening. The man slumped to the floor in a position not dissimilar to his fallen comrade.

Crowley made his way to free Aziraphale, tiny droplets of blood marking the path he took. His arm was numb. All he could feel was the slide of the warm liquid down his arm and across his fingers. Crowley’s vision was fuzzy around the edges. There was a dull pulsing in his head. He felt a bit dopey. Aziraphale’s hair was so absurdly bright. The warehouse was so dark but the moonlight was catching in his hair, giving him a little halo. When he finally got to Aziraphale the expression on his face was somber. His eyes traced the streaks of blood down his fingers and he tutted.

“Oh, Crowley.”

Crowley untied him and looked back at his little trail of blood. He thought it was fitting, that the path to Aziraphale was marked with his own blood. There was so much blood on his own hands, it only made sense he’d have to spill some of his own for Aziraphale. He knelt to untie Aziraphale’s feet and in that position, it felt exactly like he was sacrificing a piece of himself at the altar of an angel. _His_ angel.

Later, Aziraphale had insisted on patching Crowley up.

“It’s the least I can do, dear, I insist.”

Crowley couldn’t make the refusal materialize on his tongue. His arm did sting, and it had only just stopped bleeding and now that the adrenaline had worn off his head was pounding painfully. Aziraphale had driven Crowley’s car somewhere off the beaten path, a carpark well out of view and seldom used. He’d stopped off to get water and painkillers for Crowley, and he was currently rifling through Crowley’s first aid kits, looking for a suture pack.

“Aha!” He exclaimed upon finally finding it.

Aziraphale glanced around the car and then to Crowley.

“How do you want to do this, dear?”

Crowley looked down at the nice leather upholstery of his car and grimaced.

“Not in the car.” He decided. He shoved himself out of his seat and situated himself on the bonnet.

He listened to the crunch of Aziraphale’s feet on the gravel as he came around.

“Best take your shirt off. Wouldn’t want to stitch you to it.”

Crowley tried to think of something funny to say back to that but couldn’t. Instead he just let his heart thud and hoped it was dark enough to hide his flush. Crowley groaned as he pulled his shirt off, realizing he was sore in a myriad of places that he hadn’t noticed previously. The cool night air felt nice on his skin and soothed a bit of his flush away.

Aziraphale screwed the cap off a bottle of water and held it over the gash in his arm.

“This might be cold.” He warned.

Crowley nodded and braced himself. Aziraphale took firm hold of his forearm, making sure Crowley couldn’t cringe away. Unnecessary really. There wasn’t a substance enough to make Crowley move away from Aziraphale’s touch.

He gasped as the water washed over the cut, taking some of the dried blood with it, and stinging like a bastard. Aziraphale poured some more water over the cut and Crowley grit his teeth against the pulsing pain. When the bottle of water was empty, Aziraphale released his arm. His cut throbbed and his missed the grounding presence of Aziraphale’s strong fingers. Aziraphale pulled latex gloves out of the kit and slid them on. The gloves looked about a size too small and the stretch of Aziraphale’s fingers caused pale patches in the blue latex were it was stretched too thin. It was obscene. Aziraphale took a patch of gauze out and soaked it in a saline solution before firmly gripping Crowley’s arm again. The forcefulness of the gesture made Crowley’s breath hitch.

And then he pressed the pad to Crowley’s skin and the world went white for a moment. He hissed as his blood thundered through his veins and pulsed, rushing blood to his injured arm and, Crowley realized with alarm, between his legs. He panted, shifting in his steadily tightening trousers. Aziraphale’s eye bore into him, assessing his reaction.

“Okay?” Aziraphale asked, eyes searching his face.

“Yeah, ‘s fine.” Crowley grit out.

Aziraphale frowned. “I’m sorry, my dear, but I’m afraid this next part is going to smart a bit.”

Crowley nodded in acknowledgement and Aziraphale pulled the rest of the materials out of the suture kit, placing them carefully on a clean piece of gauze. Aziraphale picked up the odd little scissors and loaded the curved needle between the blunt ends, clamping down on it near the end of its curve. He straightened the suture out with his hand and lined the needle point up along the edge of the gash in Crowley’s arm, perpendicular to the skin. Clean of blood, his wound didn’t look like much, just a slit, a little window into Crowley’s body, displaying parts best kept hidden.

“Ready?” Aziraphale searched Crowley’s face.

Crowley nodded.

“Take a deep breath.” Aziraphale instructed.

Crowley sucked it down, and then Aziraphale pierced his skin. The first bite of the needle was sharp and then there was an uncomfortable tug and another sharp bite of pain, and so it went. Aziraphale worked quickly, with nimble hands that never shook.

“Fuck,” Crowley panted.

His chest was heaving, and he could feel a flush working its way down his chest. He was in pain, but unquestionably aroused. The sight of Aziraphale’s gloved hands over his skin, the sharp waves of pain with each pierce of the needle, were sending him into a frenzy he did not comprehend. He was still painfully hard. Because it hurt. It was painful, yes, but it was tender, too. It was Aziraphale causing him pain, Aziraphale taking care of him.

“Crowley, are you alright, we can take a break if you need to.”

Aziraphale reached down to pat his thigh comfortingly and Crowley’s leg spasmed. He was wearing tight trousers. He was certain his erection was obvious.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is your leg tender here?” Aziraphale’s eyes tracked down, inspecting an ache that definitely existed, but was much different from what he was expecting to find. Aziraphale’s eyes widened at the sight of the bulge in Crowley’s trousers.

“It’s fine, angel, really,” Crowley’s voice came out much hoarser than he’d intended, so he cleared his throat and started again.

“I don’t need a break.”

Aziraphale locked eyes with him. Aziraphale’s features were cool and carefully neutral, his mouth set in a perfect line. He went back to suturing and finished off the last suture with two painful pricks of the needle, tying it off with an expert twist of fingers and implements. Crowley tried his best to will away his arousal, to get his breathing under better control. When he was finished, Aziraphale set his tools down one by one, with purposeful movements. He took the gloves off slowly, eyes on Crowley the entire time. He placed a hand on the bonnet, right next to Crowley’s thigh, and leaned over him.

“Oh, my dear, it looks like you’ve got a few nasty bruises developing here.” As he said it, Crowley felt the ghost of Aziraphale’s fingers trailing over his heated skin. His breathing sped up. His heart was beating so hard he was sure Aziraphale could hear it, if he couldn’t see it.

Aziraphale was so close now that when he spoke again, Crowley could feel the breath of it against his bare shoulder.

“I saw some arnica in your supplies. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

Crowley tried desperately to regain composure, to set his breathing to rights, but Aziraphale was back before he could do it.

Crowley watched as Aziraphale squeezed some of the gel onto his fingers, and then he was rubbing it into a very sore patch of skin. Crowley gasped and arched into it. The pressure of Aziraphale’s fingers created the most delicious kind of pain. The intimacy and the foreign reaction of his body was overwhelming, sending his mind into overdrive, overruling his self-preservation. If there was a part of him that wanted to put a stop to this, to deescalate the situation, it didn’t have a voice.

“How interesting.” Aziraphale breathed.

Aziraphale leaned against the bonnet with his legs, placing a hand high on Crowley’s thigh to steady himself. He rubbed the gel into a bruise with his other hand, moving his fingers in smooth circles before digging them in to the heart of it. Crowley moaned. Even to his own ears it wasn’t a moan that could be explained by pain, at least not pain alone.

The hand on Crowley’s thigh drifted closer to his aching cock. Aziraphale moved on to a different bruise, one that was blooming over Crowley’s rib cage. He rubbed arnica into it gently at first before pressing down more intently. Crowley bit his lip and whimpered. Aziraphale’s fingers drifted over the hard line of his cock and Crowley’s bucked his hips up, seeking out relief. Aziraphale shifted closer and palmed at Crowley through his trousers, rubbing circles into a bruise with the other hand.

Aziraphale brought his face close enough that their noses touched, close enough to share air.

“Does that feel good?”

All Crowley could do was nod and attempt to stifle the desperate, needy noises rising from his throat.

Aziraphale backed away and Crowley almost whined at the loss of contact.

“Lie back for me.”

Aziraphale gently coaxed his back against the bonnet and stepped between his legs. He bracketed Crowley’s body with his arms, body emanating a heat Crowley was desperate for, leaning over him until there was almost nothing separating their lips. Crowley nudged his head up, just the slightest bit, and pressed his lips softly to Aziraphale’s.

Aziraphale’s hands rustled over his trousers, unbuttoning them and pausing at the zip.

“Is this okay?”

And Crowley could feel the words being formed against his lips.

“ _Yes_. Fuck.”

Aziraphale kissed him deeply then, and freed his straining cock from his pants, stroking it languidly.

Crowley moaned.

“Let me take care of you,” Aziraphale told him.

Those perfect, soft hands worked over him. Aziraphale used his other hand to cup Crowley’s ribs, right over the bruise. He squeezed it, just hard enough to evoke the pain Crowley was finding so pleasurable. Crowley cried out in surprise, alarmed at the way the pleasure rolling through his body spiked in response. Aziraphale continued, unwavering pressing kisses down his neck, across his jaw, working him over until the pleasure mounted, and Crowley came, clutching Aziraphale’s shoulders, gasping into the night air with a hand digging firmly into a fresh bruise.

That night had been Crowley’s undoing. The beginning of the end. A mad dash for the cliff Crowley would hurtle himself off of. Because nothing was ever the same for Crowley after that. Things had been awakened in Crowley he hadn’t known slumbered within him. It had been feverish touches, stolen moments, dirty hook ups that never went on for long enough. And through it all Crowley _felt_ so much, let it form an ocean, felt it swell up beneath him before it dragged him down to hell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Thanks for reading, if you enjoyed this pls let me know, I need that sweet, sweet validation. Drop a note here or tumblr, [https://www.tumblr.com/blog/halfofmysoulistrees](@halfofmysoulistrees)
> 
> We were Crowley heavy in this chapter and we'll be Aziraphale heavy in the next and get more of a sense of what things are like in the present.


	3. Marked

Crowley pocketed his torch. There was no need for it now that he was sure Aziraphale had seen him from his sniper’s perch. He took a moment to scout his route down, through the lattice of beams of the half-built building he was lounging in. He grimaced. Getting up was one thing, getting down another thing entirely. That was always how it had been. He never had been afraid of heights, always climbing one thing or another, driving whoever was responsible for him at that time in his youth half mad trying to watch him. He had gotten himself stuck in a tree once. He’d just kept climbing, up and up, higher and higher without any thought for how he might get back down. He tried not to think of Aziraphale. He hadn’t been able to get himself back down once he realized how high he had climbed, how far below him the ground was. Suddenly the branches seemed much less sturdy. The memory was burned in his head along with a fair bit of embarrassment. The fire brigade had to come and get him down, joking about how he was rather much larger than a cat.

He swung his legs up, planting both feet firmly on the wide beam. He crouched and slunk over to one of the large vertical support posts. He took a moment to ensure that his tacky gloves were snug and the fastenings tight before gripping the sides and beginning his descent. He had a fine sheen of sweat covering his forehead when he finally reached solid ground. There was a chain link fence surrounding the construction site. He made quick work of climbing up and over it and then he found a shadowy spot to lurk and wait for Aziraphale to emerge from the building across the street. His heart was pounding, and it wasn’t only because he’d just finished a strenuous activity. He worried his bottom lip and tried not to think too much. Their last encounter had been painful and he wasn’t sure what he would say, if Aziraphale would even want to see him, if his presence would merely be tolerated.

After several agonizing moments, Aziraphale emerged and headed down a shadowed alley. Clothed in black from head to toe, mask pulled firmly over his conspicuous curls, rifle tucked away in a nondescript case. Crowley followed from a distance, carefully surveying as he went. Aziraphale hardly ever wore tactical clothing like this. It looked good on him, but it didn’t fit. The heavy lace up boots, the pants with hidden pockets, the black turtleneck. He looked like a killer. After a short walk Aziraphale got into a van. The path Aziraphale had taken mostly avoided CCTV, and the van was parked in a blind spot. Even if he were to show up on any footage, the alley was so dark you wouldn’t be able to tell who he was, and trying to track the van would not reveal anything. Crowley waited, concealed in shadows, just on the edge of the blind spot. A short wait and then Aziraphale emerged again, dressed in a pair of cream trousers and a fluffy beige jumper. He didn’t look so dangerous now. Now he just looked like Aziraphale. But that was the thing, Aziraphale never looked like a killer, never looked dangerous until his hands were wrapped around your throat or the bullet was already lodged in your body.

Aziraphale stopped in front of the bonnet. He looked almost hopeful, eyes watery and shining before he schooled his features into something carefully neutral.

Crowley took a careful step forward. He didn’t know what to say. _God, it’s good to see your face, to be close enough to hear the sounds of your breathing._

“Your target’s going to be out the rest of the night.” His mouth moved, his voice cracked.

Aziraphale didn’t move, so Crowley continued.

“Had a fair bit too much to drink and went back to a mate’s.” He explained.

“He wasn’t supposed to be out tonight.” Aziraphale’s voice was hoarse. Probably just from several hours of disuse, nothing to do with their reunion, Crowley ruminated bitterly.

“Nope, but the money for a job came through sooner than expected and they went out to celebrate.”

“I see.” Aziraphale fidgeted with his jumper. He pulled at the hem, stretching the fabric over the swell of his stomach. Crowley wanted to put his hands there, over the soft fabric, feel the warmth leaking from Aziraphale’s body. He wanted it to warm up his cold, shaky hands while he watched Aziraphale consider. Crowley waited patiently, trying not to jump out of his skin. No sudden moves, or the nervous animal would flee.

“I’m meant to dump the van.” Aziraphale finally said.

Crowley gathered his courage. They had things to talk about. Aside from that, he might let himself be flayed alive to keep hearing Aziraphale’s rich voice.

“Tempt you to a late-night snack?” He tried not to sound too hopeful, too eager. He was partially successful.

Aziraphale’s eyes brightened and his mouth twitched into a small smile. “I could eat.”

Crowley sucked a breath between his teeth. Relief flooded him. He kept his face cool, unaffected, as if Aziraphale hadn’t just sent sparks of joy skittering through him.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Meet you at the third rendezvous?”

Crowley nodded, and set off, leaving Aziraphale to sort out the rest of his aborted assignment. Crowley tried to get a grip on the joy surging within him. Aziraphale hadn’t rejected him, but that was it. It was dangerous to get your hopes up, dangerous to have hopes at all.

******

_1 year ago_

Aziraphale was in a bit of a sticky spot. He had been finding himself in a lot of those recently, he thought with no small amount of disdain. He came to groggily, but kept his eyes closed and did his best to stay still. He had been casing a strip club, he was almost certainly in one of the rooms in the back of the club, close to the alley. He took some time to get his bearings. He tested his wrists and ankles against his rough rope bindings. The chair he was in was rickety. He could make out three distinct voices. There was a blaring pain in his head from where he had been hit by one of the brutes currently chattering away. An escape would not be the most elegant thing in the world, but he was an optimist, and he firmly believed in the power of a positive attitude. He just needed to give himself a bit more time to let the fog clear and for adrenaline to take the edge off the pain in his skull.

“When do you think he’ll come ‘round?” The voice had come from in front of him. Aziraphale strained his ears and tried to pinpoint the location.

A man with a Northern accent answered him, voice coming from somewhere behind Aziraphale, and moving, following the sound of shoes on the floor to the left. “Not sure, but he’s been out for long enough. Wake ‘im up.”

The sound of approaching footsteps made his pulse flutter. He was hoping to catch them by surprise; to pretend to be out cold for a while longer and then make his move. The footsteps increased in volume until they came to a stop altogether. He braced himself. Without preamble, a thick, meaty hand struck him across his left cheek. His head was forced sharply toward the right and the movement jostled his head painfully, bringing the blaring pain back twofold. His eyes snapped open. The room was dim but adjusting to the light was still painful. He felt as if he might vomit. There were few things in life Aziraphale found more unpleasant than vomiting.

“Rise and shine!”

Aziraphale moved his eyes up from where they were currently fixed on his assailant’s expensive looking leather boots. He traced his way up a pair of unfortunately muscular legs to a pair of unfortunately muscular arms and finally settled on a face with a nose that looked like it had been broken a few times.

Aziraphale wrinkled his nose.

“I can’t be certain, but I don’t think it’s morning.” Aziraphale’s voice sounded foreign to his own ears, his head was swimming and his stomach churning.

“Oi, don’t get cute. You’ll be lucky if you live to see morning.” Aziraphale moved his head slowly, to where another burly man leaned against a wall, smirking next to a heavy metal door.

Aziraphale resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Escape was going to be difficult, and he probably wasn’t going to be able to pull it off unscathed, but he felt confident in his odds. The brutes were still snickering when the door handle started moving, like someone was jimmying it from the other side. Suddenly the lock slid out of place and the handle turned. The burly man against the wall jumped to attention. All three men whipped out their guns, training them on the door as it was slowly pushed open.

Aziraphale shivered against the overwhelming sense of relief that washed over him. And then he had a moment to take in what Crowley was wearing. He rolled his eyes, hoping the blush he felt on his face was not too obvious. Aziraphale gave him another once over, dragging his eyes up the other man’s body in a way that most definitely was not subtle—or appropriate, given his current predicament. Crowley was not wearing a shirt, he had his long hair down and tousled, almost touching his shoulders and he had on a bushy, fake moustache. He was also wearing a ridiculous pair of pants that looked so tight and wet he thought maybe Crowley had just been dipped into a pool of leather. There were zips on the outside of each leg, going all the way from ankle to hip.

“Oh, good lord.”

Aziraphale could not stop himself from gaping. He was staring, he knew he was, but he couldn’t stop. The flat planes of Crowley’s stomach kept catching his eye, as did the pants so tight Aziraphale could see where the waist band was digging in against his sharp hip bones and he could see the outlines of the sinewy muscles in his legs. This really wasn’t doing anything to help his head. Crowley grinned widely at him under his terrible moustache.

“Eh?” He asked, indifferent to the three guns pointed at him. “What do you think, angel?”

“I don’t think that moustache suits you, dear.”

One of the men moved and Crowley brandished a knife he had pulled from God knows where.

“Who the bleeding hell are you, then?” The man nearest the door asked, jabbing his gun for emphasis.

“Oh, I work here.” Crowley replied, gesturing to his attire with the hand not holding the knife. “Obviously.”

The man scoffed and sneered, showing off yellowing, crooked teeth. “Obviously.” He echoed.

“Am I not a convincing stripper?” Crowley demanded, placing a hand on his hip and shimmying his hips to demonstrate his prowess.

The gang of brutes didn’t seem to have an answer for that.

“That really is a terrible moustache.” Aziraphale grumbled.

“Got yourself in a bit of a rough spot, have you angel?” Crowley grinned widely under his moustache. Aziraphale grit his teeth through a bout of dizziness, watching as the room wobbled in his field of view. The world slowly focused again and Aziraphale remembered that Crowley had just asked him a question. He stared at Crowley’s mouth, where his wide grin had transformed into a careful, tight line accentuated by his current facial hair. Aziraphale thought it looked like some kind of excessively fluffy caterpillar. He had to stifle a laugh thinking about how it might look if the moustache were to just start inching along, right off of Crowley’s face.

Aziraphale forced himself to focus and admitted to himself that perhaps he had been hit in the head a bit harder than he previously thought.

“You could say so.” Aziraphale acquiesced.

“Are you alright?” Crowley asked, eyes conveying the deeper meaning of the question.

Before Aziraphale could answer, the man nearest Crowley protested.

“That’s enough!” He spat through his crooked little teeth. He gestured to the other two men, positioned somewhere behind Aziraphale, keeping his gun trained on Crowley. “Take care of ‘im. We don’t have time for this.”

There was shuffling from somewhere behind Aziraphale. His adrenaline kicked up. He cleared his throat.

“Excuse me, sir, yes you with the gun pointed at the supposed stripper,” The man twitched but did not remove his gaze from Crowley.

Aziraphale continued, making the briefest eye contact with Crowley. “Have you ever considered that perhaps you ought to visit the dentist more often? Your teeth really are looking worse for wear.”

The man flicked his eyes to Aziraphale, seething. In his moment of distraction, Crowley lunged for him. He wrenched his wrist painfully, knocking the gun out of it before holding the man in place in front of him, knife to his neck. The man struggled and Crowley dug the knife in, drawing blood and quieting him.

Crowley addressed the other two men.

“Now, everyone’s going to stay nice and calm, yeah? Wonderful.”

He turned his attention back to Aziraphale.

“Are you alright?”

While Crowley was probably also asking out of genuine concern for his wellbeing, he really could be very sweet, what he really wanted to know was whether or not Aziraphale was in a fit state to help out with his rescue and the ensuing fight.

Aziraphale tensed his arms.

“Yes.”

Crowley gave him a curt nod. “By your leave then.”

Aziraphale rocked forward on the chair up until his weight was over the balls of his feet and used the momentum from the action to lift himself and the chair off the ground before shifting his weight backwards and smashing the chair apart on impact. Crowley threw his knife and struck one of the men behind him in the shoulder. Aziraphale wiggled his feet out of his loosened bonds. He saw Crowley throw another knife, this one connecting with the last armed man’s hand where it was wrapped around his gun. Aziraphale focused on the man nearest him, clutching his shoulder in pain and distracted by the scuffle happening in the front of the room. Aziraphale crouched and charged at the man, smashing him against the wall with his shoulder and feeling the satisfying crunch of the man’s ribs breaking. The man groaned in pain, but collected himself quickly. Aziraphale dodged a punch and backed away, giving himself room to work. The man lunged for his gun, where he had dropped it on the ground when Aziraphale had charged him. Aziraphale kicked it away. The man reflexively scrambled for it, dropping to his knees. Aziraphale pulled his foot back before swiftly and heavily making contact with the man’s head. Aziraphale heard him slump to the ground with a dull thud as he turned around to see Crowley dealing with the last of their little problem.

The last thug standing clutched his bleeding hand to his chest and slashed wildly with the knife that had bloodied it. The man was not much of a knife fighter. He didn’t look to be much of a brawler either, at least not with only the one had. He probably relied on his size, his strength to give him the advantage in fights. And perhaps that worked for him most of the time, but not with someone like Crowley. Crowley waited patiently until the man’s panicked flailing left a large enough opening for him squirm through and deliver the final, cutting blow.

Blood from a shallow gash on Crowley’s face was trickling down his cheek. A sheen of sweat covered his bare torso, accentuating his lean muscles in a way that was entirely unfair and alarmingly attractive, even in the abysmal lighting. Crowley cracked the door open and poked his head out, checking to see if the coast was clear. In a different situation, one in which Aziraphale might have found himself without the timely assistance from Crowley, Aziraphale would have been thinking more clearly. He reasoned it must have to do with the adrenaline and the lack of desperation. Crowley was there. Everything was better when Crowley was there. Aziraphale’s head felt heavy and painful. He didn’t need to worry, he didn’t need the extra edge and clarity the desperation of his situation would have required. He would have been able to escape, of that he was certain. But it would not have been pretty. A fox the hounds had mistaken for prey, forcefully showing them how much sharper his teeth were and how much better he was at using them. He would have left a trail of blood behind him, both his and theirs.

Crowley was crouched on the ground collecting his knives and tucking one of the guns into the waistband of his pants. Aziraphale was amazed there was room to squeeze anything into the waistband of those pants and then his mind helpfully supplied him with the information that if a gun could be tucked into them, there was probably room for Aziraphale’s hand to slide into them. He tried for a moment to shake the thought from his addled mind. It conjured up memories of what Crowley’s angular hips felt like beneath his hands, the way his skin tasted. He stared at the lines of Crowley’s back, wanting very much to run his hands up and down it.

Aziraphale was still glued to the spot, mind providing an unending stream of filth, when Crowley’s voice refocused him.

“Angel, c’mon.” He urged.

Cool metal was pressed into the palm of one hand and it took Aziraphale’s brain an alarmingly long second to process that it was a gun. His mind had given up, happy to hand the reigns over and use the lack of responsibility as an excuse to rest.

Aziraphale found what little remained of his energy and gathered it up to follow Crowley out of the room. The crouched quickly through the hallway and waited at the corner. A man opened and shut a door at the other end of the hall. They turned the corner and came to a door, which Crowley opened quickly. There was a man on the other side, standing guard. Or he was probably supposed to be standing guard, what he was doing, was smoking. He hadn’t even had time to get the cigarette out of his mouth before Crowley knocked him unconscious.

Crowley tugged him along. They emerged from the alley a few blocks over, mingling with the people spilling out of night clubs and shops. The night air was pleasant on his skin. He was beginning to feel better as they walked. The pain in his head dulled and his thoughts felt less murky. The rumble of a nearby train rose above the surrounding din. A few people gave Crowley’s bare torso a second glance but he wasn’t the only one wandering around without a shirt on. This part of London was known for its nightlife, he was hardly out of place. They joined a stream of people headed towards a carpark and Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief when they finally made it to Crowley’s car.

“I suppose I should say thank you.” Aziraphale sounded tired, even to his own ears.

Crowley turned and dug around the backseat, returning with a shirt he pulled on. “Nothing to thank me for.”

Aziraphale tilted his head, ready to disagree but not finding the energy available to him. He hummed instead.

Crowley turned to examine him.

“Are you really alright?”

“Took a rather nasty knock to the head.” Aziraphale admitted.

Crowley sucked his bottom lip.

“Concussion?”

“I think so.”

Crowley reached over and placed a hand on either side of his face. He gently tilted Aziraphale’s head this way and that.

“Checking to see if I’ve cracked open?” It was said in jest, but Aziraphale’s weak smile morphed into a grimace as Crowley prodded at his sore head.

Crowley’s mouth twitched. There was the barest hint of a smile. “You haven’t.” 

He reached across and pulled a torch out of the glove compartment.

“Trouble walking?”

“No.” Aziraphale replied.

“Look at me.”

Aziraphale dutifully fixed his gaze on Crowley as he shown the torch first into one eye and then the other.

“Nothing to worry about?” Aziraphale inquired once the torch had been turned off and Crowley seemed satisfied with his assessment.

Crowley tossed the torch onto the dash. “Nothing to worry about.” He confirmed.

They sat in a comfortable silence. Crowley gripped the steering wheel with one long-fingered hand. He gripped and regripped the faded leather, flexing his fingers.

Crowley turned to face him and Aziraphale drew his attention away from his lovely hands to his lovely face. “Fancy a bit of a drive?”

“I suppose I do.” Aziraphale settled into the seat. He tilted his head back and allowed his eyes to fall shut as Crowley drove out of the carpark.

Aziraphale drifted in and out of consciousness as Crowley drove. Crowley’s driving was uncharacteristically careful, but prudent. There was no need to draw unwanted attention. He flicked his eyes up to the rearview, frequently ensuring their lack of a tail. Aziraphale threw an arm over his face and groaned. Even through his closed eyes, the street lights were not doing great things for his head, which in turn was not doing great things for his stomach. He felt the weight of Crowley’s eyes on him and then heard him tut.

“C’mere.”

Crowley bunched the fabric of Aziraphale’s shirt sleeve in one hand and tugged until he slumped over sideways to lay his head against the center console. Aziraphale buried his face in an arm and was pleased when most of the offending brightness was blocked out. It certainly was not the most comfortable position, but his stomach was settling, so it was good enough. Aziraphale eventually fell into a fitful slumber, constantly between sleeping and waking. At some point Crowley had begun to card his fingers through his hair. The sounds of the city steadily fell away and when Aziraphale next woke the car was stopped and his eyes opened to the unpleasantly bright lights of a cheap hotel carpark.

Crowley was gently shaking his shoulder.

“We’re here, angel.”

Aziraphale sat up and blinked against the pains in his body. He hauled himself out of the car and stretched. He halfheartedly surveyed his surroundings.

“Where exactly is here?”

“A Travelodge in Reading.”

“Oh.” Aziraphale puzzled over that for a moment. There were certainly worse places in the world.

Crowley gathered some things from the car and they headed to the room where Aziraphale promptly sighted the rather worn looking bed. He toed his shoes off and flopped heavily onto it, wincing as his head jostled.

Crowley closed the blinds, blanketing the room in darkness.

“Going to have a kip?”

Aziraphale grunted and promptly fell asleep. He woke up some indeterminable period of time later with his head pillowed against one of Crowley’s slim thighs, now devoid of the leather hot pants and clad in some cottony joggers. His head felt much better. Crowley was playing a game on his phone, screen brightness turned down impossibly low. He was still tired, but not in the way more sleep would do anything for. Crowley shifted and Aziraphale could feel the muscle tense under his cheek. He sat up slowly, thankful for the duller ache in his head.

The dim glow of the phone in his hands illuminated Crowley’s small smile. “Morning. Feeling any better?”

Aziraphale rolled his head to relieve some of the tension in his neck.

“Yes, much better. Is it morning already?”

Aziraphale’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the darkness. He found a shape that could be a lamp and cast out for it, fumbling until he found the switch and turning it on the lowest setting.

“Wee hours.” Crowley said. 

Crowley set his phone aside and settled back onto the bed with his arms spread out on either side of him. He was wearing a cotton shirt and a pair of fitted joggers that hugged his legs in a way Aziraphale found unfairly attractive. He’d done away with the ridiculous moustache and his hair was haphazardly tousled, the long bits on top sticking out in every direction. Aziraphale itched to run his fingers through it, to pull the soft shirt up and run his hands over the plane of Crowley’s stomach, to nip at his skin harshly, the way he seemed to like best. Aziraphale was taken aback by how quickly the arousal had welled up within him.

“How long do we have here?” Aziraphale’s eyes roamed Crowley’s body.

“Through tomorrow. Wanted someplace we could regroup a bit, do some planning.” Crowley swallowed, taking notice of Aziraphale’s stare. Aziraphale could reach out and touch him right now, place his lips to his throat, put his hands on Crowley’s thighs and watch as his eyes widened.

It would not be anything out of the norm at this point in their shared history. They had developed the habit of sharing their bodies whenever the chance presented itself. They had partaken in quick romps in cars, abandoned buildings, and once, memorably, in a men’s bathroom. These hook ups were always fast, desperate, over just as quickly as they’d begun. They did not have the luxury of taking their time. And Aziraphale was certain he would not be able to trust himself if he was granted that luxury. He tried to keep his feelings for Crowley wrapped up tight, only making appearances in those quick bursts of passion before he bottled them up again. He was never fully successful. His bottle was leaky.

He pushed his arousal down, just under the surface, and stood next to the bed. There was a smear of dried blood surrounded by a darkening bruise on Crowley’s cheek, and a few streaks of blood on his hands. Aziraphale stared down at his own grimy hands and scowled. His skin was sticky and there was an unpleasant taste coating the inside of his mouth.

“I’m going to have a shower.” He strode to the bathroom and then called over his shoulder, “You’re welcome to join me, dear.” He pushed the door open and hastily added, “If you like.”

He flicked the light on in the bathroom, decided it was too bright and flicked it off again. He elected to let the low lamp light filter in through the open door. He turned the water on in the shower, letting the steam rise as he stripped himself of his dirty clothing before climbing in. The warm water on his skin felt fantastic. He washed slowly, taking his time, and enjoying the feeling of dirt and sweat being cleansed from his skin. He was about to turn the water off and get out, when Crowley walked in, apparently deciding to take him up on his invitation after all. Aziraphale listened to the rustling of Crowley’s clothes coming off and hitting the floor with blood already rushing between his legs. Crowley got in and Aziraphale moved aside so he could step into the spray. He reached out and cradled Crowley’s face in both hands, using his thumb to smooth the blood away from the gash in his cheek.

They never had time together like this. Aziraphale had only ever seen Crowley fully naked once, and it had not been for long. This felt intimate, purposeful. More than the release of endorphins at the end of a hard, risky job. A voice inside Aziraphale warned him against this. It whispered to him that this was already too far, that whatever line he was setting for himself was actively being stepped over.

Aziraphale washed the cut with soap and Crowley clenched his teeth and hissed.

“Stings.” Crowley muttered.

“Not the kind of pain that you like then?”

Crowley’s breath caught, audibly in his throat. Aziraphale moved closer and felt the answer in Crowley’s growing cock against him.

Crowley hid his face in the water and scrubbed at it. Washing away with the soap on his right cheek was a substance roughly the color of Crowley’s skin. It revealed a small tattoo in the shape of a snake above his right cheek that Aziraphale had never seen before. He reached out to stroke it with his thumb, giving Crowley a bit of a start.

“Full of surprises today, aren’t you.” Aziraphale exhaled.

He cornered Crowley into the tile. Crowley gasped when his back hit the tiles, which were cold under Aziraphale’s hands as he bracketed Crowley in place. He angled his head up and nipped at his throat, producing another gasp, not dissimilar to the first. He could feel Crowley shuddering against him and satisfaction surged through his body, ebbing away his better reasoning. Crowley was always so willing, so supplicant, opening up for him at the first brush of Aziraphale’s fingers on his skin. Aziraphale always forgot how tightly Crowley was wound until he came undone within his hands. It was intoxicating and Aziraphale was quite addicted to it. And he always craved more, like any proper junkie should. He moved a hand to the back of Crowley’s neck, behind where his hair was dripping warm water, and squeezed, applying the firm pressure he knew made Crowley weak. Crowley slumped into him with a moan. Aziraphale released his hold on Crowley’s neck to run his hands over the expanse of wet skin available to him, alternating gentle touches with harsher drags of his nails, drinking in every tense of muscles, every shudder of breath. He liked it more than he should, liked _hurting_ more than he should. He shouldn’t like hurting Crowley, but the fact of the thing was that he did, immensely. Perhaps it was his way of coping with all the pain he had inflicted on others, all the terrible pain his hands had caused. It wasn’t so bad when the person liked the pain, _wanted_ the pain. He drew Crowley into a kiss, dragged his fingernails harshly down the side of his neck, swallowed the resulting moan. No, not so bad at all.

Whatever hesitation Aziraphale might have had was firmly behind him now. He placed a hand at the base of Crowley’s neck, applying enough pressure to hold him firmly in place. His other hand roved to where Crowley was hard, against his hip. Crowley’s head tipped back into the tile with a dull _thud_ at the first stroke of Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale’s skin grew hotter and tighter as each sound of pleasure he drew from Crowley hit his ears. He could think of nothing else, his attention was wholly consumed by Crowley. He took a moment to soap his hand before stroking Crowley in a steady rhythm. He kissed him again, deeply, savoring all the little noises being made into his mouth. When Crowley began to twitch under him, he squeezed the hand at the base of his throat and hungrily took in the way Crowley’s eyes hooded, the way his mouth hung open as he gasped his way through orgasm. They stood under the water for a while, leaning against each other, breathing heavily, before Crowley pressed Aziraphale to the wall, switching their positions a bit further away from the water. He sunk to his knees in front of Aziraphale, a question in his sweet honey eyes.

Aziraphale found his voice hoarse when he spoke. “You don’t have to.”

Crowley took him in hand and then the warmth and wetness of his mouth was the only thing occupying Aziraphale’s mind. He squeezed his eyes shut and searched with a hand until it found purchase within wet, tangled hair. Crowley moaned around him in approval, the vibrations sending shocks of pleasure through him. It had been quite a while since Aziraphale had found release like this, and it didn’t take much of Crowley’s attention to have him dancing on the edge of his climax. Crowley grabbed the wrist of Aziraphale’s other hand and guided it to the back of his head, encouraging. Aziraphale held him and thrust into him, just barely into the tightness of his throat. The sensation was overwhelming, and he fell over the edge. When he pulled his softening cock out of Crowley’s mouth, he left behind a dribble of his spend on the corner of Crowley’s lips. Aziraphale felt a twist of possession that he quickly stuffed down. He tugged Crowley to his feet and they stood under the water, which was beginning to cool. They were still for a moment before washing what remained of their mess away.

They curled up on the bed after, silent and with a distance between them. Aziraphale clicked on the telly and gave it some of his distracted attention. Crowley scrolled through his phone and flipped through some papers he had, blueprints and building layouts from the looks of them. He jotted notes down on a little pad balanced on his thigh. Crowley glanced up, catching him in the act of staring. He smiled his crooked smile and something within Aziraphale settled.

“You should sleep some more,” Crowley said. He wrinkled his face and added, “And stop watching telly, isn’t that supposed to be bad for concussions?”

Aziraphale dutifully turned the television off. The tattoo on the side of Crowley’s face caught his attention again.

“I’ve uhm, never,” Aziraphale stopped, uncertain, and started again, “I didn’t know you had any tattoos.”

Crowley’s expression soured, and Aziraphale regretted letting his curiosity get the better of him. A facial tattoo was an odd choice for someone in their line of work, too identifiable of a mark.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale quickly assured him. “You don’t have to tell me anything about it. Forget I brought it up.”

Crowley bit at his lip.

“No, it’s okay.”

He was quiet for a few agonizing moments and Aziraphale watched several expressions dart across Crowley’s face.

“I didn’t part with Eden on the best of terms.” He snorted. “Actually, that’s putting it really mildly. I got booted out, pretty forcibly.”

Crowley swallowed.

“It wasn’t my choice.” Crowley’s eyes darted away from him as confusion and panic began to mount in Aziraphale’s chest.

“Serpent of Eden.” Crowley’s eyes were fixed firmly to the ground.

“They wanted it to follow me around. Guess no one thought about how easy it is to cover up with good make up.”

Horror seized Aziraphale’s heart and twisted it painfully. It had never occurred to Aziraphale that it had been anything but Crowley’s aesthetic choice.

“My dear, I am so, so sorry.”

Crowley waved him off.

“Not like you did it.” He paused. “Not like they held me down and did it themselves either. But they would have. The threat was there.”

Aziraphale attempted to process what he’d been told. He tried to ignore the swelling slurry of emotions getting caught in his throat at the thought that he had asked, and Crowley had just told him, just opened this piece of himself up. The vulnerability was astounding. Vulnerability was dangerous.

“What was it that you did?” Aziraphale asked against any better sense he might have had left.

Crowley’s mouth hardened into a thin line. “I’m not ready to talk about that.”

So there was some hardness left to him after all, some hidden facets Aziraphale had yet to unlock, that Crowley hadn’t seen fit to give him a key to. The idea was comforting. It allowed Aziraphale to pull himself away from his tangle of emotions. And he had to keep pulling himself away, he could not have this weakness.

*

They left the little hotel room late the next afternoon. Aziraphale had slept a great deal and Crowley had taken advantage of that time to plot. They executed their plan without a hitch the next day and that was that. Target neutralized. Job well done. Only one little snag along the way. The pounding in Aziraphale’s head had receded to next to nothing by the time he checked in to head office again. Eden was staged in the sub-basement levels of a nondescript government building. Some place most people wouldn’t give a second thought to. It was always chilly down there, and Aziraphale shivered in the elevator. The first person he saw was Gabriel, which filled him with a mix of relief and dread.

Gabriel liked him. Or at least, Aziraphale thought Gabriel liked him. He was a bit older, higher up the chain, a fully active agent. He did sniper jobs for Gabriel occasionally. The jobs he did for Gabriel always came with a wealth of information and clear directions. Easy work. He usually trained hand to hand with Gabriel in the mornings and that was where Aziraphale found him, laid out on a mat, doing some kind of abdominal exercise. He hopped up when he saw Aziraphale, a wide grin spreading across his face.

“There’s my guy.” Gabriel clapped a solid hand on his shoulder, jostling a tender spot and causing him to grimace.

“You don’t look too bad, considering.” Gabriel eyed him up and down, a strange look Aziraphale could not pin in his eyes, his mouth turning down into a frown. The expression was wiped away as suddenly as it had appeared and Gabriel took a step back.

“Not training today, then?” He surmised.

Aziraphale had been to see the doctor a few days prior, the notes and details of the appointment had most likely already been passed on to Gabriel and his other superiors. Gabriel probably already knew the answer to this question, but Aziraphale supposed it was nice to be given the illusion of agency.

“No, not until I can do so without my head hurting.” Aziraphale gestured to his head and then added, “Concussion.” Aziraphale winced again.

Gabriel was a much better hand to hand combatant than he, and just thinking about the number of times he ended up flat on his back during a typical training session was making his head pound.

“That’s okay,” Gabriel assured him. “We can stretch instead. I’m sure you could use it.”

The two hour period passed without incident. The two men made idle conversation and despite Azriaphale’s griping, stretching was making his sore muscles feel a little better. All of his dread had almost subsided by the time Gabriel fixed him with a rather serious look and cleared his throat.

“Aziraphale, before you get debriefed, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Every muscle in Aziraphale tightened right back up.

“I saw the case reports. The knife wounds were clean, and appropriate for the crowded locale you selected to eliminate the target in, but that’s not really your style, is it?”

It felt like Gabriel’s intense, vibrant eyes were boring into his soul. “You never were much of a knife person.”

Aziraphale had been lying about his and Crowley’s involvement for several years at this point. It made him nervous every time he did it, but you could not get this far in his line of work by being a bad liar. For whatever reason, lying to Gabriel was always harder. It always seemed like he knew more than he was letting on. Aziraphale remained silent and tried to get a hold on the panic rising in his chest.

“And then we caught two of the men that assaulted you on CCTV at one of the local A and E’s. Copies of their hospital records were consistent with knife wounds, and from the size, throwing knife wounds.”

Gabriel paused, apparently waiting for Aziraphale to say something.

“I, uhm, I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about.” His voiced sounded nervous, even to his ears. He tried to steady it. “I prefer to stay away from knives, generally, yes, but they can be rather useful.”

Gabriel’s eyes didn’t move from Aziraphale.

“And one of the thugs had some throwing knives on him, so I figured why not use what was available?” Aziraphale chuckled. It was high pitched and uneven.

Gabriel sighed.

“Make sure that’s what you tell them.”

Aziraphale was not sure what response he was looking for, but this was not it.

“P-pardon?”

“Michael, when you go in to debrief with her. Tell her exactly that, she’ll believe it, especially if you play up your injuries.”

“I—I really don’t know—”

Gabriel cut him off. “You don’t have to lie to me, Az.”

Aziraphale had been tied up, had a knife pressed to his throat, had guns held to his head, stared down the barrel of rifles, but in this one agonizing moment, it felt as if his heart had never worked harder.

He must have looked stricken, because Gabriel quickly held a placating hand out in front of him and stammered, “I just mean, be careful. Especially around him.”

“It can be good to have friends, and it can also be very bad.”

Gabriel stood suddenly then, startling him.

“Best get over to see Michael.” Gabriel offered Aziraphale a hand up, off the floor. He pat him on the shoulder once and then he walked away.

Aziraphale let out a heaving breath. He needed to be more careful. Certainly, that had just been a warning.

Aziraphale’s debriefing with Michael went smoothly. Nothing seemed out of place and if she had any doubts or concerns about his escape and successful completion of his job, she did not let on. His heart raced the entire time, but he was used to maintaining the illusion of calm under duress. One thing was certain though, he and Crowley needed to be more careful, and they needed to meet, soon, to do some damage control. Of course, it hadn’t worked.

******

Aziraphale drove his van to the dump site. He shot off a quick text letting whoever would retrieve it know it was ready. His hands shook on the steering wheel. Aziraphale had meant to put distance between himself and Crowley. He had been scared after his conversation with Gabriel and he wanted to do something about it so he would stop feeling like crawling out of his own skin. They had gone to dinner, much like they were about to go to dinner now, late into the night at some cheap, greasy pub. Aziraphale had a good memory and he had gone over that conversation in his head many times. Wishing he had said something, anything different, though he still was not sure what that might be.

_“Crowley,” Crowley looked up from where he’d been fiddling with his phone._

_“We need to be more careful.”_

_Crowley arched a brow. “We are careful.”_

_Aziraphale sighed, exasperated. “Not careful enough!”_

_Crowley looked incredulous._

_Aziraphale lowered his voice and leaned in._

_“Crowley, they know.”_

_Crowley waved a hand, as if that was not a fact of the upmost importance that he should have immediately concerned himself with._

_“Crowley!” Aziraphale protested._

_“Angel, listen to me.” Crowley leaned forward, matching Aziraphale’s posture._

_“What they know or don’t know is not important right now—” Azirpahale blustered, but Crowley sushed him and plowed on, “They’re planning something, angel, something big. Something you might not like.” Aziraphale was fidgeting, tapping his hand incessantly on the uneven grain of the wooden table. Crowley delicately placed a hand over his, quieting him._

_“I need something from you.” Crowley drew in a breath. “I want a decoded list of all your agents and their monikers.”_

_“Out of the question.” Aziraphale bristled with disbelief, his tone harsh._

_“Angel, listen to me.” Aziraphale snatched his hand out from under Crowley’s._

_“I want to be able to protect you,” Crowley was quiet and contemplative before he spoke again. “I want to be able to protect us.”_

_“There is no ‘us’, Crowley.”_

_He regretted the words before they’d even finished passing his lips, but there was no taking them back. It was what had to be said. What had to be done._

Aziraphale remembered the rest of the conversation, but what he remembered more was the wounded look on Crowley’s face, the way his eyes had watered, the hurt apparent in his voice. It had been nearly a year but the words were still rotting under his tongue.

He parked the van. He was doing this, he was seeing Crowley again. He would be near Crowley again. He had no idea why Crowley would even want to see him now. He still hadn’t thought of what he might say, what balm he might use to rub on the wound he’d caused. Because Aziraphale still worked for Eden, and what Crowley wanted was still impossible. He gathered what he needed and set off for the rendezvous, heart in his throat, rotten words dead under his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thanks for reading! I'm hoping to update more consistently, but if you'd rather wait until this story is finished, I understand! Thank you so much for anyone leaving comments, they are so, so motivating. Love you dearly xxxx.


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